Regarding Your Request for My Return
by teaandcharcoalforbreakfast
Summary: England has a tough time caring for America and Canada, but he wouldn't leave his boys for anything  Kink meme deanon


**A/N: **This is a really, really short thing I wrote for the Kink meme. The request was for England's trouble raising a superpowered kid. It's a bit different from the usual, so I thought I'd share it :3

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><p>15th of May, 1645<p>

Dear Charles,

Your last letter reached me a week ago, but I have not had time to sit down and respond since. I am well aware that the war is going poorly for you and I know that you believe that time is of the essence. Trust me, I know. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: I know _everything _that happens to those that love me, and whether you're willing to admit it or not there are true Englishmen on both sides of this war, which is the reason why I can't help you.

Well, it's one of the reasons. The other is the boy. I left him alone for too long, I'm afraid, and he has grown a bit feral it seems. He would rather do anything than take orders. I have enough trouble keeping him cleaned and dressed properly. I can't imagine him ever being a productive member of society. Therefore, I must remain here and do my best to teach him to be a proper English gentleman.

Part of me wishes to abandon him some days. He's beautiful and sweet, but I'm at my wit's end. However, I know that's not an option. This is fertile land, warm and with black soil. There are resources here that we need if you want me to stay more powerful than France, and if I were to leave little America I _know _that that Frog would come and steal him away.

He's impossible to control, though. He delights in making me angry, I know it! He was so sweet and bright and helpful when he was smaller, but now that he's up to my chest he's grown stubborn and willful. Whenever I do something he doesn't like he throws a tantrum, and the results are disastrous.

He's strong, Charles, stronger than even myself, I fear. I can lift twice what an average man can and I can punch a hole in a door easily. America can pull a tree right out of the ground if he can get a decent grip. He lifts me as though I were nothing, and although it was once cute it's getting annoying. He still thinks it's hilarious, though, when I twist and try to break his grip but just can't.

It scares me. Although he's bigger now, he's still but a child. He carried his horse three miles back to the house after it had fallen the other day, and it seems as though he's healed it somehow. I don't want to think of the things he'll be able to do once he's a man. If he someday begins to train his body, I fear he could pick up a cathedral with one hand (he's a scraggly little thing at the moment, but boys do tend to get tall and _then_ broad).

Canada is just as bad. Two nights ago, when America had picked me up for his usual game of "Let's see how long I can hold England against his will," Canada came and pulled me out of his arms like America was cradling me loosely. He held me close to his chest like one would a child and said, "You leave big brother alone. It's not nice to pick on him!" America just tackled him. I flew into the wall and woke up several hours later, the side of my head caked in blood and the house was a pile of rubble.

At the moment, we're staying with the governor. I've forbidden both of them from seeing their animal friends as punishment. They both cried, the little savages.

I must admit that part of me is glad I was dead for that fight.

But it just proves one thing: I need to stay and take care of the colonies for a little while longer. I don't know how successful I will be at making them respectable, but you must understand that I cannot trust anyone else.

I'll leave you with some good news, though: they do seem to respond well to affection. They both crave my attention, probably because I keep having to go away for so long. I'm sitting in bed with them as I write this letter to you. The boys are at my sides, both of them snuggled up to me and each using a hip as a pillow. I can't imagine that it's comfortable, but they both look so peaceful. I have not developed words to explain to you how I long to set down my quill, blow out the candle, and pull them to my breast instead.

Basically, Charles, I don't care if your next letter comes written in your own blood. I'm. Staying. Here.

May your war end swiftly and decisively.

Your servant,

England


End file.
